Hero's Shadow
by Twin Daggers
Summary: Follow Leif as he goes from a soon-to-be-executed prisoner to the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and more importantly, the savior of Cyrodil.  Closely follows Oblivion and the Dark Brotherhood quest lines.  May change rating later.
1. Chapter 1

The constant dripping of the water onto the mossy stones of the prison cell were enough to make him want to rip out his hair. He had only been in there for a day and a half, but it had stretched into an eternity. An eternity measurable only by the incessant _drip, drip _of that damnable leak in the walls.

The food was awful; Leif knew that from firsthand experience. He had been given a wooden bowl full of something grey in color and decaying in odor, and the guard hadn't taken kindly to having the stuff thrown in his face. Leif winced as he shifted his back against his prison cot; the kick to the ribs he had received had left a spectacular bruise across his stomach, and breathing had become laborious. His hunger wasn't helping the situation, either.

He supposed he could use his restoration ability to ease the pain, but something held him back. It could have been his mother's warning, or the fact that his older sister had burned herself to death when a spell casting had went horribly wrong, but in his experience, magic was not to be trifled with. And, he reasoned, he_ had_ asked for it.

But if he had to fall asleep _one more night _to the depressing, bleak stones of the interior of the cell, Leif decided he would slit his own throat and be done with it. He couldn't stand the lack of sunlight, and he was already dying a more agonizing death by boredom. How had he allowed himself to be arrested? It had been careless. And it had in all likelihood cost him his life.

Another _drip _brought him back to his senses, and without further ado he rose from his cot and removed his shirt, stuffing it in between the stones on the ground and muting the sound of the leak. Now he was only wearing the cheap sack pants the guards had given him, but his newfound silence made it worth the cost. All his other clothes had already been shed. The shoes had been holey and clearly had had multiple previous owners, which explained why they smelled like dog shit. And the manacles were just plain kinky. They had gone first.

"Oh, pale skin _and _a snobbish expression. That means you're a Breton," came a voice too raspy to actually be used in daily conversation.

_Not him again_, Leif groaned inwardly. That damned dark elf had been alternating between threatening and attempting to befriend him for his entire stay. Leif had determined that the elf suffered from short-term memory loss, since after every hour or so the elf would relapse into the same dialogue all over again. After several hours of this, he had come to conclude that the best technique was to avoid being noticed.

"I'm actually quite tan, thank you," he responded for the umpteenth time. "And I would prefer to think of my expression as _thoughtful_. 'Snobbish' is a bit crude, don't you think?"

"You're going to die here, you know!" the dark elf hissed gleefully. "If they don't rip out your entrails, you'll rot in your cell!"

_He could be right, _Leif sighed to himself. He had tried taking the law into his own hands when it appeared nobody else would do it, and look where it had landed him. There truly was no justice in the world.

And on top of that, his patience was wearing dreadfully thin. If he got lice from the mattress he would torch the whole place, consequences be damned.

"What, are you scared?" the elf whispered, his red eyes glinting in the dark. "Hear those footsteps? They're coming for you, Breton."

Leif did indeed hear the footsteps. Strange, since the guards only came three times a day to deliver food, and it was far too late for the dinner meal. On top of that, there were multiple sets of footsteps. They weren't coming for him, he knew that. His sentence wouldn't be up until he was dead, whether that be by execution or time. The dark elf, then? No, he had a life sentence. But the jail was currently empty save for the two of them, so he was unsure why they would come.

"What's a prisoner doing in here?" an owner of one of the sets of footsteps demanded. Leif squinted at the man over the brightness of the man's torch. He wasn't one of the prison guards, but he was armed and armored better than any of them. Two more guards appeared behind him, both equally well equipped.

"Must have been a mix-up. We can always kill him if it becomes more practical," another guard, a woman, said nonchalantly.

"Stand back!" the first guard bellowed at him. Leif shrugged and did as he was bid.

The three guards entered the cell warily, their eyes scanning ever contour of the cramped room. Their hands hovered by the hilts of their blades, as if they expected an attack at any moment.

To Leif's surprise, a fourth figure entered the room. He was dressed not in armor, but in blue velvet robes with lush fur lining. A red amulet on a gold chain glinted from the man's chest. The man himself was very old, his hair a white mane controlled by a golden crown encircling his head. The man's facial characteristics labeled him as an Imperial. His eyes, unlike the loose skin of his face, were like chips of blue diamond; they were hard, sharp, and seemed to see everything at once.

Leif shifted with discomfort when those eyes fell on him; either he had consumed some sort of hallucinogen, or Uriel Septim VII, the Emperor of Cyrodil, was actually standing in his prison cell.

"Your Majesty, we will dispose of the prisoner for you," one of the guards, a Redguard with battle-scarred hands and skin, said in a no-nonsense voice.

Leif felt the anger blossoming in his chest, and he took a step forward to tell the man exactly where he could put that sword of his, but to his surprise the emperor intervened.

"It is alright, Baurus," the emperor said, and although his voice was low and calm, it carried the undeniable ring of authority. The guards, whom Leif realized must be Blades, the secret sect of warriors sworn to protect the ruling family, backed down.

"You," the Emperor said. "I recognize you from my dreams." His shoulders seemed to sag, but they straightened again so quickly Leif wasn't sure if he had been imagining it.

"So it really is time," the Emperor said softly.

"Yeah," Leif said. "This is kind of… uh…"

"Sudden?" Septim finished for him. "The shifting winds of fate seem sudden to us all, even if the events set before us have been a long time in coming."

"Why am I here?" Leif asked himself.

"I do not know, but neither I nor the gods care. Whatever crimes you have committed, you are being absconded from them here and now by the Nine. You have a great destiny before you, if you are willing to accept it."

"It… was a rhetorical question," Leif muttered under his breath.

"Tell me," Septim continued as if he hadn't heard, "do you believe in the Nine?"

"I'm not on good terms with them," Leif allowed, watching the Blades pat down the far wall of his cell with expectant fingers. What were they looking for? A passage?

"The Nine have guided me my entire life," the Emperor continued sonorously, as if his audience had a grand total of more than one person. "And whether or not my rule was as divine as my forefathers, my time of death is nigh upon me."

Leif nodded his head up and down to show that he was listening, although really he was still asking some large, unseen force how exactly this situation had happened.

"-Which is why I am here, now," the Emperor finished grandly, going so far as to allow himself a small flourish of his robes.

"Sir!" cried the female Blade. "We uncovered the passage!"

"It's your lucky day, prisoner," said the Redguard, scowling. "Just stay out of our way."

Uriel Septim leaned towards the Breton and mouthed the words "Follow us." Then he turned and with a regal sweep of his robes, entered the passageway after his guards.

Leif watched the Emperor's receding back for several long seconds, wondering at the bizarre twist of fate that had brought the most powerful man on the continent into his life.

Then he came back to himself when the dark elf across the hall started flinging curses at him.

"Damn you! Lucky bastard! But don't worry; you'll die in those sewers. If those Blades don't slit your throat, the assassins will slip a dagger between your ribs… Die, Breton!"

_Assassins… What? _Then Leif looked back at the passage and realized that the light from the guards' torches was fading. Without further hesitation, he padded after the Emperor's entourage into the darkness of the underground.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_I can't believe this_, Leif mumbled to himself for the fifth time in a row. He was shuffling blindly through the darkness, his hands stretched out in front of him in order to prevent him from walking face-first into a wall or, worse, something that would actually hit back.

He was trying to follow after the Emperor and his Blades, but their rapidly fading torchlight remained faint and elusive. Finally Leif's willpower crumbled enough that he reached within himself for his inherent abilities, and, focusing, drew the fire into the palm of his hand.

Instead of releasing the fireball, he fed it magicka and kept it living in the palm of his hand.

It was that light that prevented him from accidentally stepping his foot through the ribcage of a yellowed skeleton.

Leif's eyes widened in surprise, but he bit back a yelp. If there were really assassins after the king, which would explain the presence of so many Blades, then they would be after Uriel Septim. And Leif had the misfortune of being exactly where the assassins would want to be; behind the Emperor.

After recovering from his initial shock, Leif bent to inspect the skeleton more closely. There were pieces of cracked leather armor, stiff with age and probably more brittle than durable. There was also a rusty iron bow and a quiver, which Leif quickly claimed for himself.

After some hasty adjustments, he had swapped his sack pants for the ill-fitting armor and recovered a measure of confidence.

Then he scurried after the Emperor, unwilling to explore the dark any more than necessary.

Which wasn't the greatest idea, because by the time the Breton reached the party of warriors, they were just taking care of the last of a group of assassins clad in red robes. As the last one fell, the conjured steel armor protecting him evaporated in a glitter of yellow light.

"Cowards," the Redguard muttered, nudging a corpse near him with the toe of his boot. The sound of his sword sliding back into its sheath raised the hair on the back of Leif's neck, and he sank back into the shadows, uncertain.

He had never liked guards or steel, and the combination of both guards and steel made him feel sick.

Despite his pains to stay unnoticed, the Emperor seemed to sense the Breton's presence. The corner of his mouth curved upwards before he swept forward, forcing his Blades to take their positions around him.

Leif crept forward to slip through the heavy stone door behind them, but before he could, it swung shut. He crammed his fingers into the crevice between the door and the walls, seeking leverage, but he quickly abandoned his attempts. The door must weigh over a ton.

Swallowing his nerves, he concentrated on the fire in his palm, allowing it to brighten the underground cavern.

A few minutes of searching brought him to another exit from the chamber, almost unnoticeable. A rotten wooden door creaked ominously, but Leif pushed through it.

He found himself not in a stone chamber, but a natural tunnel that smelled of earth and moisture. He crept through it, unsure whether or not it was worth the extra effort of sneaking until he caught sight of a rat easily bigger than a small child. From the way saliva dripped from its oversized teeth onto the fur of its chin, Leif had never been surer in his life that a creature had rabies.

Slowly, so slowly it pained him, he took bow slung over his back and notched an arrow to its bowstring. Without even daring to breathe, he pulled the arrow back, feeling the springy wood tense under his fingers. The muscles in his back protested as he held the position, carefully lining his shot with the rat.

Just as it turned towards him, Leif loosed the arrow. It took the rodent cleanly through the throat, and the light in its eyes dimmed instantly as it fell to the ground.

Leif exhaled softly, noticing only then that his hands were shaking. He really wasn't cut out for this, but hey, who was he to turn down a get-out-of-jail-free card… Even if it only meant expediting his death.

He located and disposed of three more child-sized rats in the next twenty minutes without detection, and with each kill he gained a bit more confidence. After a while the all-consuming darkness didn't seem so perilous, and the narrow earthen tunnels became less oppressive.

That was why he walked, entirely unprepared, into the skeleton of an old guard, a rusted war axe clutched in its bone fingers.

He sensed the movement out of the corner of his eye, and threw himself sideways without questioning his instincts. The edge of the axe whizzed by his face, scarcely two inches in front of his eyes.

He then hit the ground on his shoulder, rolling to ease the impact. He came up clumsily, groping for an arrow from his quiver. He couldn't notch it fast enough and suffered a cut across his bicep for his efforts before he dodged backwards again. The skeleton came towards him slowly, a dull gleam in the sockets of its skull where its eyes should have been.

Leif scooted backwards as far as he could go until his back hit cold rock. The skeleton began trotting towards him, then sprinting, pulling its axe back for the final blow-

The Breton summoned the fire from the core of his being, collecting it between his hands, fueling it with energy from his own body, before flinging it at the skeleton.

With a sizzling sound and a burst of smoke, the fire ate into the skeleton's bones, melting away a part of the spine and several ribs. The skeleton fell to the ground, spasmed once, and then laid still.

Leif wiped sweat from his forehead. That had been far too close. Ignoring the stinging of his arm, he picked himself back up.

It was only several minutes later that Leif stumbled across a rusty iron shortsword that had long since passed its prime. He buckled it around his waist, more comfortable since he had a substitute for his magic. His strength was drained, and the quick bursts of adrenaline left him with legs of jelly.

When he finally made it out of the natural caverns and back into the secret passage, he had to pause for a minute to catch his breath. That was when he heard the voices of the Blades, getting louder with each passing second.

"-You and I both know that that's preposterous," the woman seethed. "Our order has only the most loyal and dedicated warriors in Cyrodil, we would every one of us rather die than betray the Emperor-"

"That's not what I was suggesting, Captain," the Redguard said coolly. "Although it is a possibility. Obviously we went wrong somewhere, if the assassins could get this far."

"Silence," the Emperor ordered. "This is no time for argument amongst ourselves, you should know that best."

Some more grumbling, and then a muttered curse when the torchlight sputtered out. A few seconds later the light flickered back on, allowing Leif a view of the Blades. Their steel uniforms were splattered in blood, both dry and fresh, and not all of it belonging to their enemies.

Uriel Septim, fortunately, seemed unruffled. The only sign of stress on the Imperial's wizened face was the sagging corners of his mouth, giving him a thoughtful frown.

It took the Redguard less than two seconds to spot the prisoner, crouched tiredly in the corner of the chamber.

"Damn, it's that prisoner again," he muttered, his eyes continuing to scan the rest of the room. "I'm really starting to think that killing him might be for the best. He could be working for them, after all."

"Nonsense," the Emperor overrode the murmured assents of the other two Blades. "Although to have made it this far in spite of us, there must be someone guiding your path."

The aged ruler approached the youthful prisoner. "My stars have guided me all my years, from my beginning to my end. I would know your sign as well."

Leif's eyebrow lifted. "My birthsign, and not my name?"

Septim didn't bat an eye. "I will take what will you give me, and I do not think you will give me your name. There is too much mistrust in your eyes."

The Breton blinked, surprised at the depth of the Emperor's judgment as well as his accuracy. This man wasn't the most powerful person on the continent for no reason, Leif thought wryly. And his perception did deserve a reward.

"The thief." It seemed like a breach of privacy to pronounce personal information like that to a room full of potentially hostile strangers, and yet Leif had still done it. He had known Uriel Septim for less than two hours, but the man was already earning his respect.

Septim nodded, as if he had expected that, and without further ado he turned towards the entrance of the next hall.

_How does he know where to go?_ Leif wondered, but decided not to ask. He doubted he had the charisma to force such an answer from the Emperor.

The dark corridors fed into an antechamber with old sculptures and carvings in the walls that were so eroded over time that the prisoner could barely make them out. The uneven floor and numerous pillars left enough shadows to provoke the guards into a search, leaving the ruler temporarily alone with the prisoner.

"Under different circumstances, I would ask how you've wronged and how you've been wronged to wind up here, but I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of time," Septim informed him neutrally. "I am going to die here, as I have seen in the stars. But my end is only the beginning, for I have seen the gates of Oblivion, and without their resealing, evils not of this world will blacken the land. The gods have sent you here to me, whether or not you will believe it. You must close shut the jaws of Oblivion, for the fate of the world hangs in the balance."

While his voice was evenly pitched, Leif couldn't help but notice the rising intensity in Uriel Septim's eyes. For some reason, he didn't question any of what the Emperor told him; Septim's conviction was too real to be doubted. And while he wasn't physically imposing himself onto the Breton in any way, Septim wore the robes of authority with a flair that made him seem larger than life.

"What would you have me do?" Leif asked, berating himself for his easy compliance yet unable to stop it.

"Take this," the Emperor said, removing from around his neck the huge red ruby and golden chain. "Give it to Jauffrey at Weynon Priory, outside Chorrol. He's the Grandmaster of the Blades, he'll know what to do."

Hesitantly Leif accepted the amulet, feeling its weight dangling from the chain in his hand. He must be the first non-Septim to hold it in centuries, he mused to himself.

"A final piece of advice from an old man," Septim said, placing a strong hand on Leif's shoulder, and the Breton looked up curiously.

"Whatever circumstances led you here to me, they will continue guiding you, whether you will it or not. They will change you, mould you, and yet you must remember that you will always carry a measure of control over your own fate. As far as the rest of the world knows, you died in that cell. Now you are reborn. Do with your second life what you could not with your first, for the gods spared you for a purpose and will not let you die so easily. "

Leif was silent for a moment. "You are a difficult man to understand," he said finally.

Uriel Septim VII smiled wearily. "Difficult to read, perhaps. But I follow simple rules."

And then the assassin sprang forth from a hidden alcove and stabbed the Emperor through his heart.

Leif shouted for the Blades before unsheathing his sword and taking a clumsy strike at the assassin. The robed figure blocked the attack with ease but was unprepared for the Breton's close-range ice attack.

Leif managed to freeze the assassin's sword arm, and the axe the man had been holding clattered to the floor. The assassin pulled a dagger from his belt with his free hand and lunged at the Breton, his speed and strength easily overpowering him. Luckily the Redguard Baurus arrived in time to intervene, smoothly intercepting the blow aimed at Leif's throat. Within two seconds the assassin fell to the ground, his trachea slit.

"My fellow Blades are dead," he swallowed, "and now my life's purpose has failed."

The Blade fell to his knees beside the Emperor's corpse, unheeding of the pool of blood that soaked into the cracks of his steel greaves.

Leif stood awkwardly to one side, unsure of what to do. On one hand, he had an inherent hatred for all the guards, but this was a man in mourning. And the Emperor of Cyrodil had been killed in front of his eyes, and he had been powerless to stop it.

He was weak, and a great man had died. Leif wasn't about to blame himself directly for the Emperor's death, but there was certainly a correlation between his own strength and Septim's death.

He felt responsibility for the death, and he had known Uriel Septim for a few sporadic hours. He couldn't imagine how Baurus, a man who had served the Emperor for decades, was feeling.

"The amulet!" the Redguard exclaimed, wild-eyed. He looked left and right jerkily, like a startled animal. "Where's the amulet?"

"Here," Leif said, holding it out. "He gave it to me, right before he…"

Baurus began reaching for it, then stopped, his hand partially outstretched. "He saw something in you," the Blade murmured. "I don't know what, but it was something. If he gave it to you, then you should be the only one to handle it. Did he tell you what to do with it?"

The Breton didn't want to give away that information, but he saw no other option. "He said to take it to Jauffrey."

"Hmm." Baurus put his put his chin in his hand, pondering. "I suppose that makes sense. If anyone knew what to do with the thing, it would be him. You'll have to go there immediately, you hear? It's not like you can sell the Amulet of Kings to a merchant anyways."

"Understood," Leif agreed. While the last thing he wanted to do was agree with a civic employee, this was a subject too sensitive for personal grudges. "What will you do?"

Baurus sighed, the lines on his face seeming to etch themselves deeper. "I'll stay with the Emperor's body until someone comes. It's the least I can do, now that…"

Leif had the uncharacteristic impulse to put a hand on the man's shoulder, but he smothered it instantly. He asked instead, "How do I get out of here?"

The Blade dug into his pocket and brought out a small, rusted key. "This will get you into the sewers," he said. "From there just follow the direction the water's moving in. It will bring you to the hillside exit."

The Breton accepted the key, shoving it into one of the numerous pockets of his greaves. He hesitated for a moment before saying, "Good luck," and parting.

The sewers smelled terrible, and Leif knew he was getting close to him by the way the smell was progressively worsening. Within ten minutes he found the rotund door that led to the sewers.

He opened it with the key and carefully crept inside, his eyes scanning the shadows for signs of movement. It took him some time to get a feel for the area, but he worked out a system. The trick was to spot the other occupants of the tunnel before they caught sight of him.

The sewers were less difficult to navigate than the tunnels had been, although there was a measure of wading through murky, toxic-smelling waters in order to get out.

Nevertheless, several dead rats and a few broken skeletons later, Leif saw the light at the end of the tunnel, no pun intended.

Allowing himself a grin of triumph, he heaved open the sewer doors and allowed the moonlight of the open skies to illuminate the sewers. And then he stepped out into the night to begin his second life.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 SUCK ON THIS BITCHES!

The first thing Leif noticed upon exiting the godsforsaken sewers of the Imperial dungeons was the smell. Grass and flowers had never smelled so good before, so _alive_. The only things waiting for him in the prison had been boredom and death, as well as those long since dead in the tunnels he had escaped through.

But now, the air was filled with the smell of opportunities.

The second thing Leif noticed was the moonlight streaming through the sky, reflecting off the calm waters of Lake Rumare, the great body of water that protected the Imperial City from invasions as much as its Guard did.

The Breton took a few steps forward, allowing the rusted grate covering the sewers to swing closed. He found himself on a hillside overlooking the southwestern walls of the Imperial City, although he only knew that by reading the stars. His own constellation, the Thief, was shining with extra radiance, and the Emperor's words ran through his mind again. Leif found that he was not at all surprised by Uriel Septim's seemed omniscience.

The waters of Rumare lapped gently against the sandy shores, and the effect was calming after his witness of the deaths of several Blades and his Emperor, Uriel Septim himself. Overcome with a sudden fatigue, Leif cast aside his bow and quiver and sat himself down on the hillside and stared unthinkingly at the dark, star-speckled night sky. The dampness of the dew on the grass seeped through his leather greaves, and he embraced the cleansing sensation, shifting his position to lie eagle-spread on the ground.

He stared at the stars, bewildered and delighted by his newfound powers of decision. What would his next step be? What was he going to do now? He was still by all means a fugitive, but with the death of their ruler he assumed that the guards would have better things to do than waste time and resources chasing him… Still, he would have to be wary. He had better avoid major cities and towns for a couple weeks, until his face had faded from the memories of the enforcers of the law. Even more importantly, he didn't want himself associated with the Emperor's death.

He had promised Baurus that he would take the amulet to Jauffre immediately, but that was several weeks' west by foot. And if he wanted to buy a horse, that would mean months of hard labor, provided there were even jobs available for unskilled workers like himself. So traveling by foot was his only option.

Which brought another tricky subject up; provisions. If he was going to set foot on a journey, he would need food and supplies to see him through. Chorrol was a large town nestled at the foothills of the Colovian Highlands, prone to harsh winds and storms, especially in the spring.

He looked down at his bare feet. His soles were tougher than hardened leather after years of working his parents' farm in the fertile flatlands of the Nibenay Basin. The farm had been passed down through generations of his family; his great-grandfather had cleared the land with the aid of his brother and wife, and it had passed to his mother, who had put in years of her life to learn about and utilize soil-preservation techniques.

It had been his lifelong assumption that the farm would one day be passed down to him, since his eldest sister had joined the Mages Guild to explore her talent with magic, and his younger sister had always wanted to travel. His youngest brother, the baby of the family, had had no interest in farming. In fact, Gavin had never developed an interest in much of anything, farming being only one such example in a sea of many.

Of course, when the bandit company raided and pillaged their farm, leaving nothing but flames and desolation where orchards and wheat fields had once been, everything had changed. The raid had been right before the harvest, in early Frostfall, and had left the family without food for the upcoming winter.

Even worse, the bastards had murdered his father. Now his soul was with the Nine, although these days Leif didn't take much comfort in that. The presence of the Nine was a fickle thing at best to depend upon, and enough sorrow had plagued his family over the past year that he was half-convinced that the gods had given up on Cyrodiil entirely.

First bandits had killed his father. While Leif had never managed to see eye-to-eye with his old man, he had nevertheless cared deeply for him. His loss had harmed the entire family, but by far the worse afflicted was his mother. She had taken sick that very same winter, in large part because of the grief. To make matters worse, the winter had been long and difficult, and they had very little food. He had been forced to kill all of their plow horses over the three-month winter in order to keep their bellies full, although hunger had still been a constant companion.

His mother had died the day he killed his favorite horse, Rose. He remembered coming into their small wooden cabin, horse blood frozen across his face and pieces of skinned horseflesh slung over his shoulder, to see the empty stares and tear-stained cheeks of his family. It had indeed been a hard winter.

Then when the snow finally thawed Gavin simply left the farm. He had said nothing, yet Leif had awoken one morning to his empty bed and missing shoes. He and Lessia, his youngest sister, hadn't known what to do.

His eldest half-sister from his father's previous relationship, Neemia, had been granted access to the Arcanum of the Imperial City two years prior to that and hadn't even known of the horrors that had torn apart her family until Leif could pay a messenger to take a letter.

Leif blinked, bringing himself to reality, and held his hand before his face. Those miseries were behind him, although they were hardly all of it. He had no idea where his brother was. His half-sister had recently killed herself playing with her abilities, and his younger sister… Lessia, was...

Lessia. Even now the name brought a stab of pain to his chest, as if someone had punctured his heart with a blade. She had always been the closest of his siblings, the one whose company he kept after a hard day of plowing, when the sky was lit golden as the sun sank below the horizon and the children had a few precious minutes to themselves…

The hand he held before his face clenched in anger, and he felt the hot prickle of tears behind his eyelids.

He would deliver the amulet, as he had promised. If his time had come to play the hero instead of the victim, then so be it. But after that he had was going to switch to a more personal vendetta, to finish what he hadn't been able to before…

Back to provisions. Currently, Leif had on him only a rusted iron cuirass, a pair of leather greaves, a dulled iron shortsword, a wooden shield, and a bow and a small quiver of arrows. He had no shoes, no food or water, no potions or blankets or money. The only thing he had of value was the Amulet of Kings, and there was no way any fence he tried to sell it to would believe it was the real thing.

No matter what way he looked at it, his situation was bad. His only option was to stake it out in the wilderness; even if he made it to Chorrol, he couldn't show his face in the town, or even venture any further towards it than Weynon Priory. He would have to rely on himself for food. While he had a solid knowledge of edible plants due to his upbringing, he wasn't sure how different the woods west of the Imperial City were. And if he wanted meat, he'd be getting it himself. Leif grimaced at memories of his performance in the tunnels- he could barely hit rats the size of dogs. The possibility of hunting deer, who were far fleeter of foot than he was, and rabbits, who were much more agile, was slim.

On top of that, the roads were dangerous. The areas between the seven major cities within Cyrodiil were scarcely populated and filled with all manners of dangerous creatures. The roads weren't an option, as guards often traveled them, and the last thing he needed was to encounter a guard. Still, someone as unskilled as he traveling solo through the wilds… Well, he had always been a quick learner, at least.

Nevertheless, his only option was to move forward. He sighed at the moon before climbing to his feet and reclaiming his shabby weaponry.

Then he turned to face west. He would travel until he found a suitable place to sleep, he decided, and he would do his best to avoid the creatures of the wilderness. With the determination of one who has no other options, Leif set forward into the night.

Three hours of quiet walking took him from the shores of Lake Rumare into the shadowed woodlands of the Great Forest.

Leif lifted his head to the sky and appraised the stars. From the moon's position against the horizon, he judged that it was about two o'clock in the morning. Fatigue was creeping upon him, slowing his movements and thoughts, yet he had wanted to put as much distance between himself and the sewers as possible. The woods had been quiet, and he had not encountered any beasts or humans so far. He had been very fortunate in that manner…

The only warning he had was a faint buzzing sound from behind. Leif didn't question his instinct; he just threw himself forward and hit the ground with his chest and hands. He quickly rolled sideways, taking refuge behind a lichen-covered log. His breath was coming in short gasps, he realized distantly.

When he looked over his shoulder, he saw an arrow embedded several inches into a tree trunk where his chest had been seconds before.

With quivering hands, he removed the bow slung around his shoulders and drew an arrow from his quiver. Nocking it with painstaking slowness in order to remain silent, Leif peeked over the top of the log, straining his eyes.

There were two bandits in his line of vision, a dun-colored Kajhiit and an Orc easily seven feet tall, steel battleaxe in hand. While he could barely make them out- the only source of light was the moonlight filtered through the leaves- he saw that the Kajhiit held a bow. As his gaze rose to the Kajhiit's face, the flickering orange gleam of the bandit's catlike eyes made Leif realize that they were looking for him.

Then the orange eyes alighted on him and narrowed, and at that unfortunate moment Leif remembered that Kajhiits could see in the dark.

He ducked back down under the log, crawling to the right a few feet to escape the archer's aim. He couldn't let that Orc get close to him. If he did, it was all over.

Leif inhaled deeply, his fatigue replaced with the hot current of fear. He counted to three, rose from his place behind the log, adjusted the arrow's direction, and loosed it at the Kajhiit; the Orc's heavy armor would protect him from mere iron-headed arrows.

To his surprise, the arrow sailed true, sinking itself into the Kajhiit's stomach. With a strangled cry, the bandit dropped his bow, his hands clutching at the wound, trying to smother the dark stain discoloring his fur cuirass.

Leif was about to offer himself a word of silent congratulations when he heard the crunching of leaves and branches underfoot. The sound was rapidly approaching him. He looked up in alarm to see a giant shadow above him, silhouetted in the moon's glow.

With a yelp, Leif threw himself backwards just as the Orc's battleaxe split the log he had been hiding behind, sending a spray of wood chips flying through the air. Leif threw his arms in front of his face to protect himself, and he felt a line of fire across his forearm as a result.

The Breton hastily crawled backward, ignoring the pain in his arm. With a stab of repulsion he saw the wine-colored smear of his own blood against the axe's thirsty edge.

The Orc heaved mightily, his huge arm muscles bulging under his steel chainmail, and the battleaxe was freed from the log. The Orc lifted it above his head, preparing for the final blow.

"You killed my partner!" he yelled, baring his yellow fangs like a savage wolf. "You will die for that, scum!"

Then the battleaxe descended from the sky, seeking his lifeblood. Time seemed to slow as Leif rolled to his right, desperately scrambling to his feet. He unsheathed the iron blade at his waist, knowing that there was no way it could withstand a blow from the battleaxe.

His only true defense was his magic. Leif exhaled and reached inwards, his elder sister's face flashing across his mind's eye as he did so. The fire flickered to life within his open palm, at first small but growing in size and intensity until it consumed his hand, white hot with his fear and magicka.

Then he looked up at the Orc, whose lengthy recovery time left him full of openings for a warrior more adept than Leif to exploit. Nevertheless, the Breton recognized his only opportunity and seized upon it.

He threw his blade at the Orc with his free hand. It clanged harmlessly off the chestplate of the Orc's armor, but its momentum caused the bandit to take a surprised step backward.

As the Orc recovered from the momentary delay, Leif swallowed his fear and sprinted towards the Orc, leaping off the ground and throwing himself directly towards the Orc's face.

Shock-and then fear- flitted through the creature's yellow orbs before Leif's hand, enveloped in white-hot flame, closed around the creature's thick throat.

The Orc dropped his axe and reached for Leif with two huge hands, his mouth a snarl of defiance-

And then Leif channeled all of the fire he possessed into his right hand and _pulled_.

Purple Orc blood splattered across his face and torso as he ripped out the bandit's throat. A wheezing sound escaped from the Orc's trachea as his yellow eyes dimmed and slowly filmed over with the glaze of death.

Then the giant began toppling forward onto Leif. The Breton had no opportunity to escape, and the much larger corpse of the Orc forced him roughly to the earth. The full weight of the body slammed him against the ground, causing the air to leave his lungs and his muscles to scream in protest. He grunted as his back hit a hard rock, and he heard a rib snap. Lights danced before his eyes for a long moment before he came fully back to himself.

Grimacing against the cut in his arm and his aching ribcage, he planted his hands on the shoulders of the massive bandit, straining to shift the weight enough to slide his legs from under the corpse. It was futile; he was well and truly pinned.

Leif relaxed his efforts, panting in short gasps. The hot blood of the Orc was still flowing, and he could feel its sticky heat across his chest, trickling down his sides and pooling in the dirt.

He stared at the hand that had channeled his fire; it was unburned, unblemished. He had felt no pain, yet the surface of his skin was still smoking slightly. He looked at his other hand, his left hand. It was drenched in blood.

Was this what his second life was to be? He sought revenge, sure, but that was a natural cycle in his world. These people, the Kajhiit dying slowly from a fatal wound to his internal organs and the Orc who had died quickly, had tried to kill him. But he had slain them first. It was so different than that time on his farm. So different. He had been but a boy of seven then, too young to act, too young to prevent it…

Death was all around him. It always had been. The Emperor had died before his eyes that very night. And now he had cut short the lives of two with his own hands.

The scariest part was, besides the fear and the sense of being overwhelmed, Leif didn't feel much different. That was the part that sickened him the most.

He had only wanted to be a farmer.

A slow clapping startled him from his reverie, and he twisted around to see a shadowy figure emerge from the trees, almost as if the forest had spit him out. The man was clad in a dark green shirt and laced leather pants. Despite his casual wear, a deadly looking silver shortsword was strapped to his waist. Leif could tell from the way that it glowed softly that it carried some sort of enchantment, probably a frost spell.

"Well done," the man said, and his voice summoned to mind images of black silk. "Well done indeed. I was going to dispose of them, but you did a fine job on your own."

Leif tensed as the man approached. He gritted his teeth and pouring all his remaining energy into freeing himself from the corpse's weight. He had barely survived the encounter against the bandits, and he would be damned if all that was only to be killed by a stranger now.

The man chuckled softly as he watched the Breton's useless struggle. Crossing around the escaped prisoner, he knelt beside the corpse. "We both push on three. One, two, _three_."

The man was stronger than his slim stature hinted, Leif realized dully as their combined strength forced the corpse to roll onto its back, off of the Breton. The steel suit of armor clanked in protest, but finally the deed was done.

Leif climbed unsteadily to his feet, wincing at the razor-sharp stabs of pain radiating from his ribs. Knowing he had no choice, he called forth the healing light incumbent within his being, feeling its drain on his meager strength. He released the healing magic across his ribs and arm, savoring the sensation of cool water.

The man who had aided him watched with sharp, interested eyes. When Leif was done healing himself, he barely had the strength to stand. He stumbled, but the man caught him and pulled Leif's arm over his shoulders, supporting some of his weight.

"They left their campsite," the man informed Leif. "It's just up ahead."

The Breton looked at him, only half comprehending. In the light of the moon, the man's facial structure identified him as an Imperial. His black hair was drawn back into a long ponytail, tied off with a strip of red cloth. His eyes were an inky black, and his long nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been forcefully broken and hadn't been reset properly.

Their progress was slow due to Leif's uncertain steps. For an inexplicable reason, he felt the Amulet of Kings grow heavy and hot in his pocket, as if it were trying to tell him something. He was too tired to think on it, however, and it took all of his concentration simply to keep walking. The man didn't seem to mind the pace, however, and after a time they made it to a clearing with two canvas tents set up around a dying fireplace. If he had been less fatigued, Leif would have wondered how exactly the Imperial had known that the campsite was here. As it was, however, the only thing he saw was the bedroll under one of the tents.

The man, uncannily perceptive, noticed the direction of his gaze. With silent consent he helped the Breton towards the bedroll, lowering him enough that he could sprawl onto the rough blankets without falling.

Without ever saying a word to the mysterious man, Leif felt the currents of sleep reach up to embrace him. Desperate to escape the horrors of his night, he allowed them to.

As his world faded, he thought he heard the man whisper to the sky, "Sithis, I have done your bidding."

But it could have been the beginnings of a dream.


End file.
